


Gray Matter

by chillydown



Category: Confessions of Dorian Gray, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Gore, Other Additional Tags to be Added as Chapters Go Up, brief mention of vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown/pseuds/chillydown
Summary: Dorian Gray. A name that's repeated throughout the history of the Magnus Institute. A name that belongs to a man who Jonathan Sims meets five times in various statements, one time in person.
Kudos: 1





	Gray Matter

With a slightly annoyed sigh, the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute clicks on the tape recorder. He pauses for a moment to hear the tape whirring before he begins to speak.

“Statement of Amelia Markham, regarding an encounter she had while hiking in the woods. Original statement given January 13, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

“I’ll give America this: they’ve got _wonderful_ trails. I think it’s all that space? You can really stretch yourself out there compared to some places in the UK. I’m an amateur hiker, you know. Done a few English trails myself—the Yorkshire Wolds Way, Hadrian’s Wall Path. I’ve been trying to work my way up to Blencathra, but the weather’s always been bad. My white whale’s the Appalachian Trail, but I need to save up a lot more money and a lot more vacation time before even attempting it.

“Still, I figured I might as well get used to how hiking’s done in America before I even attempted to do part of the trail. I didn’t want to book my flight, take all that time off, and then discover that American hiking culture’s way too different from British hiking culture, you know? I had a two week holiday that I wanted to devote entirely to hiking. No better time to fly to America and give their trails a test. Of course, that holiday ended up in early October so I decided to just forget about hiking anywhere up north. I’m not a cold weather sort of girl. Fortunately, Arkansas didn’t seem too bad for that time of year. So I booked a plane, rented a car, and flew over to the states.

“I decided to skip the Ozarks and instead focused on the Western Arkansas, Ouachita Mountains area—and look, I see you taking notes, you’re gonna have to look up the spelling of that yourself, it’s not spelled anything like how I’m pronouncing it. Nothing in that area really is. Case in point, the first place I went to? Spelled P-E-T-I-T J-E-A-N but pronounced “petty jean.” Wild, right? It’s a national park with plenty of trails, scenic areas, cabins, and a trail lodge.

“There were a few trails in Petit Jean I wanted to hit up. I did Seven Hollows bright and early in the morning. There had been a storm the night before so not many people were out. There was still a decent number, though. The park’s a pretty known area, so I never was truly alone. I went to the lodge for lunch, to rest up a little before tackling the Cedar Falls Trail, and to see about possibly booking a cabin for the night. Honestly, I didn’t want to get back in the car for another four hours after doing about six and a half miles of hiking. My trip was flexible enough that I could do that sort of thing anyway.

“When I went to book the cabin, another man was talking with the receptionist. Black hair, blue eyes, also English, like me. But the weird thing about him was that he looked out of place. He didn’t look like a hiker, you know? He looked like someone who Googled ‘things to buy for hiking’ and then picked up the most expensive pieces of kit they could find. He looked posh. Way too posh. Still, I try not to judge. He was talking with the receptionist, who must have had the thickest accent known to man. Posh Spice didn’t seem to understand her. I could tell tempers were starting to flare so I swept in and served as an interpreter. Got things sorted, got a cabin booked for Posh Spice, and we ended up sitting down and talking.

“He said his name was Dorian. He had been down in Florida visiting an old friend and decided to travel for a bit before returning back to London. We chatted a little more. Unsurprisingly, Dorian was unemployed—’between jobs,’ he put it. Makes sense. Everything about him seemed like one of those rich kids who takes time off to go find themselves on daddy’s credit card, you know? He seemed pretty young as well. Mid-twenties, tops?

“I mentioned I was going to hike the Cedar Falls Trail and, to my surprise, he asked if he could join. Again, didn’t seem like a hiker, so I was a bit taken aback. He kept on looking at me in this interesting way, though. If I had to guess, I’d say he fancied me. Either that or he was just so relieved that there was another Englishman that he didn’t want to let me out of his sight. I said sure, didn’t mind. The guy didn’t seem all that creepy, just a little off. And besides, there were a decent number of hikers on the path. If he tried anything fishy, I’d just scream for help and we’d have at least six witnesses.

“So, Dorian and I started to hike. The hike starts up at the lodge before going down a mile or so of downwards terrain to the base of a waterfall. You loop back up to return. The terrain’s a little rocky and it gets a bit steep at times, but I think it’s perfectly serviceable for any slightly decent hiker. I mean, there were little kids scrambling up and down the thing. We both could handle it well enough, at least.

“Dorian and I spent the whole time talking. To nobody’s surprise, he wasn’t a hiker. I got the impression that he was putting something off, that he didn’t want to return to London for some reason and decided that killing time in the States was a good enough way to do so. I talked about hiking with him for a while, though I could tell he really didn’t care that much about it. He mostly seemed to be paying attention just because that’s the right thing to do.

“The weather was still pretty nice. A slight fog was coming in, but nothing too bad. You could still see the trail ahead of you, you know? Still, there were a lot less people the closer we got to the waterfall. That was a little bit odd. And other things were a bit...weird. At one point, Dorian asked me if I heard a noise. He said it sounded like a scraping? I thought it was just trees or squirrels or something like that, something that Posh Spice over there didn’t have much experience with. I brushed him off. But then, about five minutes later, I heard it as well.

“I don’t know what it was. And I don’t want to say what I thought it sounded like because...well, it sounds stupid, you know? The scraping noise sounded like claws, scraping against the ground. And it sounded like those claws belonged to something big.

“But this is a pretty populated area. Yeah sure the wilderness has things like cougars—or pumas? Still can’t remember the difference. But there weren’t any here. This wasn’t hiking through the wilderness, this was a well-maintained, well-kept, checked every day trail. Anything big would have been scared away or, knowing America, shot. It had to have just been my imagination...except Dorian heard it too. I suggested we go back. But Dorian mentioned that we were already fairly close to the waterfall. Might as well complete the trail before turning around and heading back. So, we hiked on. All the while, the fog kept growing thicker and thicker.

“We ended up making our way to the waterfall itself. And honestly? It was gorgeous. This was a good year for rain so the waterfall was thick, showing off it’s full glory as the water tumbled down to the stream below. In theory, you could walk right up to it or even climb behind it—you’d have to scramble off the path, however, and I suspected Dorian’s shoes didn’t have the best grip. Besides, the majesty of the fountain couldn’t hide the fact that the hairs on the back of my neck were sticking straight up.

“I turned around to leave but all I could see was fog.

“I don’t know how it appeared so fast or how it became so thick in the first place. We could still see the trail when we made our way down! I turned back around to look at Dorian, to make sure he was still there. I could see him, but the fog had covered up the waterfall. It was just there! I had just seen that waterfall less than a minute ago. No fog moves this fast.

“No natural fog, that is.

“Dorian was just as spooked as I was, but he seemed a bit more calm about it—like being spooked was just a day to day occurrence for him. He told me to stay put and he’d go try and find the trail back. I told him he was an idiot if he thought I’d let the only person I could actually see out of my sight and we’d piece out the trail together. He didn’t like that, but he agreed. Carefully, we both started to make our way back up the slope, to the trail lodge itself.

“If I had to guess, I’d say we were about halfway up when I heard the scraping sound again. Dorian and I both froze. He told me to stay put and he’d go investigate what it was. I knew I shouldn’t have let him go, I knew we should stay together. But honestly? I didn’t want to go anywhere near that...whatever it was. I knew hiking. I knew nature, I knew the feel of dirt under my boots, I knew what sort of animals should be out here. That? That noise was something I didn’t know. And it scared me. So I stayed put and let him go investigate what it was.

“I don’t know how long I waited. Five minutes? Ten minutes? All I know is that the quiet started to settle around me and I began to feel afraid. I didn’t know where that thing was! I didn’t know where Dorian was! I didn’t know if it could even see me in the first place, though a part of me, deep down, knew it could. I felt...watched. And it scared the hell out of me.

“Suddenly, I heard a scream: Dorian’s. It wasn’t a surprise scream, it was a scream of someone in pain. I only heard a noise like that once before, when one of my coworkers dropped the edge of some heavy equipment on her foot and broke her toe. It was that sort of scream, but ten times worse.

“I dunno what came over me but I ran towards it. I didn’t know CPR, I knew I couldn’t fight whatever was making that noise—because I knew that was the reason why Dorian screamed. Because that thing had found him. And that thing must have hurt him in some way I didn’t know how. But I ran towards it.

“When I found Dorian, he was cut to shreds. He was on his knees, desperately clutching at his stomach. I could see three large, gaping claw marks going from his chest to his stomach, tearing through his fancy jacket to show guts and viscera and muscle beneath. There was a hint of something white that I worried was bone. The scent of blood overpowered the air, choking out the smell of anything else. And there was something on the ground. Something wet, slimy, bloody. It was a sickening brown color. And worst of all, it seemed to still be connected to Dorian via muscle and sinew. Dorian looked at me and told me to run.

“So I did.

“I didn’t know where I was running. I pushed through trees and brush, scrambled up rocks, running away and up. The trail leads _down_ to the waterfall. I didn’t know where I’d end up, but I knew that up was the way to go. And so, I ran. And I ran and ran and just kept running, desperately hoping to find the lodge, find someone else, see a car, see _anything_ that was even slightly close to civilization.

“And as I ran, I knew that I was being chased. That there was something behind me. I could hear it panting and could almost feel the hot breath on my neck.

“Eventually, the terrain leveled out. I must have ran close to what the trail actually was because I found myself near the starting point: the lodge. And that’s when my brain realized that I could actually _see_ the lodge. The fog had cleared up. I ran inside, found the desk clerk and told her that there was an accident. Someone on the trail was wounded, I didn’t know how, but there was a lot of blood. English guy, dark hair. I didn’t give her more details. How could I? English guy, dark hair, had his entire stomach ripped out by something that I didn’t know what it was. She wouldn’t believe me. Still, she nodded and called the EMTs. I made my way to the restroom, where I promptly vomited up the entire contents of my stomach.

“Dunno how long I was in the bathroom. I puked up everything I had until there was nothing left to puke. And then I knew that I was going to leave. I know it was rude, abandoning someone like that, but I thought Dorian couldn’t be alive. Nobody gets their stomach ripped out and lives to tell the tale. So I cleaned up myself, thankful that I didn’t book a room, and then turned around to go to my car and leave.

“I couldn’t stay there. Not with whatever that was lurking in the woods. I put my things in the rental car, turned on the ignition, and just started driving. I wanted to get off of that damn mountain as quickly as possible.

“But as I drove down those winding roads, I saw something else. There was a man, coming out of the woods, in a part of the area that wasn’t a trail. Dark hair, blue eyes, expensive jacket ripped to shreds. It was Dorian. Or, at least, it was something that looked like Dorian. Because he was _whole_. He was in one piece. His chest was bare yet intact. No tears, no gashes, no...dangling organs. But I could still see the traces of blood around where the wounds should be. He gave me a little nod as I drove off.

“I couldn’t go back and check to see if it really was him. The mountain road is two-lane and it’s pretty winding. There’s not really a good place to pull over and turn around. And honestly? I didn’t want to go back and check. I didn’t know who I saw, but I knew that it couldn’t have been Dorian.”

The tape recorder whirs for a moment before Jon sighs and amends, “Statement ends.”

As he talks, the Head Archivist shuffles through some paper, looking over some notes as he puts them to tape. This one was...gristly, in parts. But on a whole? Nothing that couldn’t be explained away by a simple mental break. Hallucinations, perhaps? Or maybe Ms. Markham thought the wound was worse than it was. Needless to say, it all seems explainable.Which doesn’t surprise him—of course it would be. None of these things were real. He swallows some spit that had built up in his mouth during the narration before he continues to talk,

“The incident doesn’t seem to have shaken Ms. Markham all that much. As of the time of this recording, she’s been hiking the Appalachian Trail for the past month. Still, she was kind enough to provide the precise dates for her visit to Petit Jean. I asked Sasha to get in touch with the park staff to corroborate her information. They located the paperwork for the incident that Ms. Markham had described. A woman told staff that someone was hurt on the trail, EMT staff and park employees investigated, they found a surprising amount of blood but no injured party. They performed a search of the area but again, found no injured person. Likewise, there were no signs that the injured person was dragged off somewhere. If I had to guess, I’d say the blood came from a deer.

“Attempts to find this ‘Dorian’ Ms. Markham mentioned have also been fruitless. The man left no contact information with the lodge and paid for his room in cash. And, most notably, he signed the guestbook as ‘Dorian Gray’—an obvious pseudonym if there ever was one.

“Statement ends.”

There’s a pause before the tape recorder clicks off.

**Author's Note:**

> Petit Jean State Park is a very lovely state park, just outside of Morrilton, Arkansas that (as far as I know) has absolutely no connection to the Hunt. I highly recommend hiking the Cedar Falls trail if you like that sort of thing. The falls really are gorgeous and the hike is relatively easy.


End file.
